For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Ethan looked at his wife.
“You tore up a letter explaining that my mother had just given me a home.”
Vanessa began crying again.
He didn’t comfort her.
But he didn’t shout either.
He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and stared at the carpet.
I recognized the expression.
He’d looked that way as a teenager after discovering he’d failed an examination he thought he’d passed.
Not devastated by somebody else’s punishment.
Confronted with the consequences of choices he’d made.
Vanessa reached toward him.
“Ethan, please.”
He gently moved his hand away.
“I need to understand how you planned to sell something without telling me.”
She wiped her cheeks.
“I wasn’t going to do anything without your signature.”
“Then why tell the broker I’d already agreed?”
She stopped.
There was no answer that made that part harmless.
Finally, she said, “Because I was afraid she wouldn’t take me seriously otherwise.”
Ethan closed his eyes.
I turned toward Claire.
“Would you give them the trust summary and contact information for the attorney? They need independent advice about what this means.”
Claire handed Ethan the documents.
He accepted them without opening the folder again.
Then I picked up the wooden box.
Its polished surface was unmarked.
I’d purchased it from a craftsman near Willow Point, thinking Ethan might keep the letter inside with other family papers.
It seemed almost absurdly small now.
